The Little Boy With Grown-Up Eyes
by Brooklyn'sQueen
Summary: Gabrielle Despereaux is, well, desperate. She's tried her hand at every job in New York City. She has nothing to her name but two sisters back in France, who are counting on her. Then she meets the newsies. They give her a job and a family. While their friendship blossoms into something more, a murderer starts to rampage New York, targeting mostly newsies. Who will be next?


Christmas Day that year of 1899 was the coldest day that New York City had ever seen. I was shivering on a park bench just outside of a residential neighborhood, wishing for a proper coat and a warm home. I had neither. My last hope was contained in the building not thirty feet away: the Newsboys' Lodging House.

With trembling blue hands, I unfolded the newspaper ad. WANTED: ONE MAID AT NEWSBOYS' LODGING HOUSE. WILL BE PAID WELL.

I could only pray that no other qualified girl had taken the job before me. I desperately needed the money, not only to care for myself, but to send it to my sisters back in France. They were going to sail across the ocean and meet me in New York. Our parents had died recently, and my eldest sister, Brigitte, was expecting a child in February. My other sister Madeleine was watching over her.

I felt it unfair, but at sixteen, I was the most qualified person for the job. Brigitte argued that I was beautiful and charming; Madeleine, that I had persuasive powers. Both agreed that if one of us was to make the dangerous journey, it should be me.

Remembering my dear sisters gave me the courage to rap on the door of the Newsboys' Lodging House. I stood patiently until the door was opened.

An elderly man dressed in his best suit greeted me with a warm smile. The rush of hot air from inside the building swam over me, smelling vaguely of oranges. It was all I could do not to run inside.

"Merry Christmas and a good morn to you, miss," the man said politely. "May I help you?"

"Y-yes," I chattered. "I'm here to apply for the position of a maid?"

"I'm terribly sorry, miss, but the position has already been filled."

Tears welled up in my eyes. That was it. I was doomed to failure. Brigitte and Madeleine would be stuck in France, in the middle of the famine and with a child on the way. And I was to die alone and helpless in New York.

The man studied me. He noticed my worn blue wrap, trying and failing to serve as a coat. He noticed my chattering teeth, my greasy hair, my skin turning purple with cold. Finally, he said, "Would you care to come in?"

I nodded gratefully and went into the lovely warm home without another thought.

"My name is Dewey Kloppman," said the kind man. "I don't have a job for you, young lady, but I do have a home. This is the newsboys' home, but there are several newsgirls' lodging house where you could stay."

"Thank you, sir," I answered, overwhelmed with gratitude. "Oh, thank you!"

Mr. Kloppman looked at me thoughtfully. "Let me finish some arrangements, and I'll have one of the newsboys escort you."

I nodded my thanks. It was too good to be true.

I turned and looked behind me. The large room was decorated in beautiful reds and golds, and a colossal fire crackled in the marble fireplace. Newsboys of all ages stood and sat around a large red loveseat, exchanging presents and laughter. It felt like a home, and I was instantly at ease.

I went over and stood by a good-looking newsboy with dark hair and a smart gray vest. He was puffing steadily on a cigar.

He looked amused at my entrance. "Hello, Miss Despereaux," he said, tipping his cap to me. "The name's Lavelle. Scotty Lavelle."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lavelle." We stood in silence for a minute. Mr. Lavelle was clearly enjoying it, though, taking delighted puffs of his cigar and blowing smoke rings into the air.

Finally Mr. Kloppman walked over to us and saved me from being forced to make small talk.

"Scotty, would you please escort Miss Despereaux to the Girls' Lodging House?" Mr. Kloppman asked.

Mr. Lavelle smirked unpleasantly. "Here in 'Hattan or in Brooklyn? My instincts are tellin' me that Spot'd like to meet her."

"Does Spot frequent the Brooklyn Girls' Lodging House?" asked Mr. Kloppman, rather drily.

Mr. Lavelle only grinned in answer. Mr. Kloppman shook his head. "I have a feeling you'll take her there anyway, Scotty, so yes. Take her to Brooklyn." He strode away.

I gulped.

I'd only been here for a few weeks, and even I knew that Brooklyn was dangerous. Girls my age went missing in Brooklyn all the time. Thugs prowled the streets in broad daylight. At night, if one's door wasn't locked, one would wake up in the morning and discover that all one's posessions had been stolen- if one wasn't murdered in their sleep.

"I'm sorry. . . did you say Brooklyn?" I asked, hoping he'd just made a mistake.

"I sure did. Do you have all your things?" He looked at me. I nodded, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. "Good, you'll fit right in with the newsies. They don't have nothin' either. C'mon, if we hurry we can catch Spot at the docks."

The docks. Oh, no. Mr. Lavelle held the door open for me and we started walking. I didn't even notice the blast of freezing air, such a difference from the warm interior of the lodging house. Not only was I headed to Brooklyn, I was going to meet a strange boy at the Brooklyn docks. Chills tingled up and down my spine.

Docks. There was absolutely nothing more I hated than the ocean. In France, when I was a child, and my sisters would take me to the beach on holiday, I screamed and screamed. I couldn't remember being scared of anything worse than that endless ocean.

Ugh! Water. There had been no worse torture than being all alone on the ship coming from France, leaning over the rail and losing my breakfast, wishing Madeleine or Brigitte was there with me.

To get my mind off of my worst fear, I asked Mr. Lavelle, "Who is Spot?"

He choked in the middle of a puff on his cigar. "You don't know who Spot is?"

"No, sir." Was I supposed to know?

"He's only the best newsie this side of America. Prob'ly beats the other side, too. Newsies in Jersey know about Spot! He played a big part in the strike earlier this summer." Mr. Lavelle's chocolate-colored eyes were gleaming. "He's the District Master Workboy of Brooklyn."

I wasn't sure what to say. Eventually, I settled for, "Goodness. He sounds important."

Mr. Lavelle snorted. "Important? He's critical. He's-" The newsboy broke off and leaned a little closer to me. "He's an interesting fellow, but a word of warning: Spot likes the ladies. Ask the girls at the Lodging House. Spot's broken so many hearts he can't count 'em all."

I nodded uneasily and took a cautionary step away from the newsboy. "Er, thank you for the warning, Mr. Lavelle."

"Oh, and call me by my Christian name. Much less formal that way. I assume you don't know who I am?"

"I'm sorry, but I do not."

"Well, they call Spot the King of Brooklyn; the same people have called me the King of Chinatown." Scotty winked roguishly at me. I tried to disguise a grimace.

"Is your family from the Far East, then?"

He walked a little faster. "Sure."

I was confused. "So they're not from there?"

"Sure."

"I don't know what you're saying. . . Scotty." I winced a little at the use of his Christian name.

Scotty snorted. "Try to keep up, Miss Despereaux- can I call you Gabrielle? Gabby?"

"Certainly not!" I blurted. It dawned on me a few seconds later. "How did you know my first name?"

The newsboy winked at me and ruffled a hand through his jetty-black hair. "I pick up on things faster than normal people, Gabby."

I resisted the urge to run screaming from his presence. "Ah."

"Back to your earlier question, some people say me family's from China, others are sayin' just the opposite. Choose whoever you want to believe, sweetheart."

"Kindly refrain from calling me 'sweetheart,'" I said, avoiding eye contact and hurrying just a little too fast.

Scotty blew on the end of his cigar. I had no idea what he was doing. "You sound educated. 'Kindly refrain'- what's that even mean?"

"It's a polite way of saying 'stop doing it, please'." I glanced around. "Gracious, but we're already at the Brooklyn Bridge!"

"Eh, Kloppman's ain't that far from it," he shrugged. "All right. This's the dangerous part."

I gulped. "Dangerous, sir?"

"Manhattan ain't on the best of terms with Brooklyn right now, especially Chinatown. So here's how this'll go down. Either Brooklyn sees me walkin' down with a girl and lets us off with a warning, kicks us out, or take us prisoner."

"Take us prisoner?" I gasped. "Mr. Lavelle! You're only newsboys, for heaven's sake! What would be the cause of such a war between the newsboys?"

Scotty Lavelle looked amused. "Things can get a little heated, Gabby. I'm surprised. I thought you woulda known better. Spot's goin' around tellin' everyone I stole his girl, and next thing I know me boys are comin' back with black eyes. . . ."

I tried and failed to control my fear. Irrational, I knew it, but I'd always had a tendency towards worry. And Scotty's laid-back attitude wasn't helping matters. "Are you telling me that you stole a legendary newsboy's girlfriend, from Brooklyn, no less, and now he's taking everyone who walks down the Brooklyn Bridge prisoner?"

"Well, yes."

"Marvelous. Let's start walking, shall we?" I strode forward with my heart in my mouth and took the first step onto the bridge. I nearly fainted as the harsh wind swayed the bridge slightly, and pressed a hand to my heart.

Scotty looked at me. "Is you afraid of the bridge, or what?"

I pretended I hadn't heard him. "Thank you for escorting me this far, Mr. Lavelle. I'd prefer you to turn back now."

"I'm comin' with you, Gabby." He picked his way across the wooden planks towards me.

"I don't want you to get hurt, and I assume that if you come to Brooklyn with me you will be hurt. It's not a lot to ask. Mr. Lavelle, please go home. And thank Mr. Kloppman for me as well."

Scotty only laughed and kept walking.

"Sir, your kindness goes too far!" I said, raising my voice. But he didn't stop. Fuming, I picked up my skirts and hurried after him.

"You're not looking for a fight, are you?" I asked.

"Let's just say I owe Spot a little somethin' from the last time we met," said Mr. Lavelle, stubbing out his cigar and tossing it over the side of the bridge. "Don't get all mad at me, Gabby."

"Don't call me Gabby, please."

Scotty laughed again.

"What? What is it?" I asked.

Scotty pointed. "See down there? Them three newsies comin' towards us? That's Spot and his cronies. Betcha they got most of the others to drive the civilians off the bridge while they dealt with us."

"Civilians?" I was getting more than a little scared. "Mr. Lavelle, please, maybe this isn't the best time to be crossing the bridge-"

"Nah." Scotty was staring straight ahead. "Look, they's runnin' now. Want to catch us before we decide it's too late. 'Course, that ain't happenin'."

I let out a little gasp as the three boys started to sprint, and I whirled around and started walk-running as fast as I could.

"Gabby, where you goin'?" Scotty caught my elbow. "Spot don't like it when girls run."

I could feel sweat pooling down my face. It was my own personal curse to sweat when I was nervous, and even the brisk November chill couldn't help matters. "He won't care if he can't catch me."

"He's already caught us!"

"Mr. Lavelle, he's nearly a quarter mile away from us! There's plenty of time-" I regained control and took a deep breath. "I apologize for raising my voice. I have an excitable temperament. My point is that we have time to get away, time that we should be using instead of standing here like we're made of straw."

He raised an eyebrow. "Straw?"

I huffed, "I fear you are not taking this seriously enough, Mr. Lavelle!"

"First of all, I've already asked you to call me Scotty. Second, Spot ain't gonna hurt you. It's me he's after. Third, you're about to go live in Brooklyn. You'll have to deal with Spot every day of your life from now on. I suggest you face him now." Scotty patted his pockets. "Blast! My last cigar, and it's in the East River."

"That is, without a doubt, completely your fault," I said icily.

"You're a responsible person. You were s'posed to tell me not to throw it!" Scotty peered over the edge of the bridge.

Stupidly, I joined him and immediately felt vertigo tilt me upside down as I gazed into the tumultous green water, scattered with chunks of ice. I backed away, bending over. "Oh my word," slipped out of my mouth. Suddenly an unknown force had picked my stomach up and tossed it around. It was as if everything was no longer in existence, no longer there. I was alone in my own personal hell.

Scotty looked at me, concerned. "Gabby, are you all right?"

"Just a moment, please," I moaned. "Goodness gracious, but that was a mistake. I- ohh." I reached out a hand to steady myself and gripped the edge of the rail. My sweaty palms slid off the metal. I gasped for air. The nausea was overwhelming.

"Gabby-" Mr. Lavelle began.

"I beg your pardon- I get panic attacks sometimes-" The world seemed as if it was swimming beneath my feet- the deep water beneath my feet, waiting to drown me, unspeakable horrors lurking in its shadowy depths.

I concentrated on breathing and eventually felt the world steady around me. Scotty's concerned face came into focus. He offered me a hand, and I stood back up.

"Thank you," I said shakily. "I'm terribly sorry." I waved my hand aimlessly. "I suppose I'll be on my way now-"

"Not so fast!"

Dread settled over me as Spot Conlon's goonies caught up to us. My blasted panic attack had cost us.


End file.
